


Black & Blue

by coveredbyroses, onyxcandy (coveredbyroses)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Possession, Blood, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Breeding, Captivity, Come Swallowing, Cutting, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fear, Fear Play, Forced, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Orgasm, Knifeplay, Manhandling, Non-Consensual Touching, Painplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Coercion, Spitroasting, Submission, Threats, Threesome, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/onyxcandy
Summary: After a failed attempt to free Dean from Michael's possession, you find yourself trapped in the bunker with two dangerous supernatural beings.





	1. Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> *Trigger warnings for rape/non-con. Read them.

The air in the bunker’s library is thick with suffocating tension. Dean — or  _Michael,_ the archangel currently wearing the seasoned hunter, sits bound in warded chains in the old wooden chair at the head of the table.  It’s unnerving how you don’t recognize him. Sure, it’s Dean’s body, his features — but the hard-set eyes and icy smile warping his face are foreign to you.

And the clothes…Dean’s no stranger to suits— hell, they’re almost an equal portion now to his flannel-themed wardrobe —but this 1920’s mobster king get up? It’s almost laughable. Almost. Or it would be, if not for the lethal creature hiding behind the elder Winchester’s skin.

You watch with wild eyes, sparing Sam a nervous glance as Rowena utters the incantation, words you can’t begin to understand streaming between perfectly painted lips. She flicks a small, open palm toward the bowl of ingredients. The motion causes a small explosion of bright light followed by a pinkish-purple smoke.

The lavender fog spreads across the spacious room, and there’s a trio of coughs and gasps as the three of you breathe the stuff in. You fan the air in front of you to clear the smoke away—

“Oh dear…” Rowena’s thick Scottish accent cuts through the silence, her words shaky in a way that has you wondering if you should chance a run for it.

Sam’s still coughing, but manages to choke out, “What? What is - What the hell?”

The cloud begins to clear, and you can barely make it out…but is that… _two_  Deans? Michael is still bound to the chair, but there’s a perfect  _clone_  standing next to him. Clad in dark-washed jeans and a blood-burgundy over shirt layered over his usual black tee. He shifts, sways a little on his feet like he’s disoriented.

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” Rowena murmurs.

“I think you forgot somethin’,” Michael smirks.

Dean snaps his head toward his twin. “Woah…” he blinks, raises a pointed index finger at his doppleganger. “ _That…_ is friggin’ trippy.”

“What is this?” Sam blurts. “Did you extract him from his own body…or - or clone him?” He closes his eyes, shakes his head, shaggy hair fanning with the motion. “I’m so confused.”

Rowena glances down, olive eyes locking onto the painted sigil on the table.

“Oh… _shit_.”

“What?” you and Sam chorus.

“Th-the sigil…I forgot the outer symbols…Bollocks!” Her voice is abnormally high. Even for her.

“What does that mean?!” Sam shouts, panic evident in his voice.

Rowena whips her head toward the younger Winchester, loose red curls bouncing behind her. “It means I performed a dark extraction! It means…I’ve pulled the darkest essence of Dean’s soul from his body.” The witch slowly turns back toward the duplicate Deans.

“The darkest essence?” Sam echos. “Wouldn’t that be Michael?”

“No.” A deep, gritty voice answers. “It’d be a demon.” 

The standing Dean flashes a  _nightmarish_  grin, and your heart drops to your stomach as his eyes slick to onyx.


	2. Chapter 1

“We need to get out of here. NOW,” the petite woman urges.

Rowena is halfway across the room in a blink, while Sam’s hazel eyes dart frantically between you and the creatures in front of him—he’s struggling with the decision to save his brother or get you to safety.

He chooses you.

He gets a grip on your arm, hauling you behind him as he takes long, massive strides across the floor—when all of a sudden a heavy arm hooks around your waist, snatching you from Sam’s hold and heaving you backwards to collide with solid muscle—

Your hands slap against the muscled forearm just under your breasts, too stunned to make a sound, panting heavily as your heart hammers against your chest.

Sam  _whirls_  around, squaring his shoulders as he prepares to face the monster version of his brother.

“Let her go.” His voice is so low, it only registers as a whisper.

“Jeez, Sammy…I raised you better than that, didn’t I? Where’re your manners?” 

Sam’s chest deflates as he huffs out a breath of air. “ _Please,_ let her go.”

“That’s better…but…no.” Meaty fingertips twitch against you through your shirt. You hear a snapping sound and then Sam is gone, Rowena too, vanished into thin air.

You’re wheezing now, breathing in thready gasps of air as icy panic sinks its fangs into you.

You can feel the heat of his mouth against the top of your head, wisps of your hair blowing across your scalp as he speaks,

“Now…you wanna explain that thing over there?”

You lick at your dry lips, “Michael,” you croak. “That’s Michael.”

There’s a pregnant pause before he speaks again. “Michael…as in the  _archangel_ , Michael?”

“Y-yeah,” you confirm. “You said yes.”

“That don’t make sense,” the demon comments. “We stopped the apocalypse.  _Years_  ago.”

“S’long story,” you breathe. “This Michael—he’s from an alternate universe…Sam was in trouble—Lucifer…you needed Michael to defeat him.”

“Lucifer?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

He whistles, the piercing sound rattling your nerves. “Well, ho-lee shit.”

“Nice work!” You assume he’s addressing the angel. He isn’t met with a response.

“Please let me go,” you whisper.

“Aw, whatsamatter honey?” the demon drawls. Scratchy lips tickle at your right ear,

“You scared?”

The bastard. He  _knows_  you’re scared. If he can’t hear your thundering heartbeat, he sure as shit can feel you trembling behind the iron cage of his arm.

An exact, albeit smoother, replica of his voice rumbles from just a few feet away,

“Y’know, I could use a little help over here.”

“No!” you hiss to the man behind you. “Don’t let him out—”

“Why is she here?” Michael asks.

Dean turns, keeping you flush to his chest, until your both facing the incapacitated angel.

“This is my  _girl_ ,” the demon says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“See, I was hopin’ we could spend a little time together. Alone.”

WHAT.

“But you’re kinda puttin’ on a damper on that.”

“Well, as soon as you release me…I can leave you to it. Be on my merry way.” Michael offers. But tension forms at the pit of your stomach at the sinister glaze of his eyes that makes you squirm against the wall of muscle behind you.

The air around you swells with testosterone. And you’re literally stuck in the middle, waiting for the first dog to strike.

“I’ve been where you are, you know,” Dean says. “Bound. Defenseless, while some self-righteous asshole performs spells,  _treatments_ on you…and for what? To mold you to their purpose, their agenda?”

Michael’s jaw ticks.

“Its sucks, man. And worse - it pisses you right the fuck off.” You test the demon’s hold, hoping he’s distracted enough that you can just slip—

He loops his free arm around you, trapping your arms at your sides, essentially bear hugging you from behind.

“I release you,” he continues, “and you’re gonna direct all that rage to the nearest living thing…I gotta look out for myself. And keeping you locked up — that keeps me alive.”

The angel narrows his eyes, sending you shaking all over again.

“Of course…we could always cut a deal—”

Michael scoffs, “You demons, always lookin’ for a deal.”

“Okay then. C’mon sugar, let’s find us a room—”

“What kind of deal?” Michael looks none too pleased, but this is probably the most desperate he’s ever been.

Dean flexes his arms around you, giving you a brief squeeze. “This. This right here is your deal.”

The archangel tilts his head questioningly, not quite attuned to the demon’s meaning.

“A little something to take your…frustrations out on. Until you feel all better.” Dean clarifies.

You stomach clenches. “Dean,  _no!_  Please—”

Damp-warm breath fans across the shell of your ear, “Shh-shh-shh, you’re alright kiddo.”

“You really think that  _interests_  me in the least?” Michael bites. “You really think I want to… _copulate_  with a filthy—”

“You’re inside a filthy human right now,” Dean counters, “why not be inside two at once?”

You feel sick. Physically sick. The demonic form of your deepest love is pimping you out to a fucking angel.

Michael smirks at that. The double entendre not lost on him.

The archangel runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, stubbled skin bulging. “And what, exactly, is in it for you?”

Dean snorts, “Isn’t it obvious?” Michael’s unblinking glare prompts him to continue. “Self preservation, dickbag. That’s what’s in it for me. You have a little fun with my… _gift_  here—” He gives you a playful squeeze, “—And we all go our separate ways. Plain and simple.”

“Your terms?” Michael asks.

There’s a significant, uncomfortable silence before the demon speaks again.

“You share her with me.”

“Okay, stop!” you blurt, struggling against him. You’ve had enough. They can’t just talk about you like you’re a fucking object, not when you’re right  _here_. “This—this isn’t right! You can’t—you don’t have my permission! I get the final vote, you know.”

Dean chuckles darkly behind you. “Oh,  _babydoll._ You don’t get a say at all.”

Your blood freezes on the spot as he constricts his arms even tighter around you, a vice around your ribs. “Did you really think we  _needed_  your permission?” You struggle to find enough moisture in your mouth to swallow.

There’s a faint pause and then you feel the rage building in your belly. You dip your head forward and then violently  _heave_  it back—

Dean is significantly taller than you, but you’re hoping to at least clip his chin, anything to stagger him, to loosen his grip around you.

You feel the muscles in his chest tense as he dodges the blow, and then he’s pulling an arm from around you—lightening fast—to hook an elbow around your throat. The movement frees your arms, your hands instinctively flying to the bar of muscle coiled around your neck. You nig your nails in—hard—desperately clawing and scraping at the flesh, to no avail. You’d forgotten the demon’s healing powers, the bloody trails quickly dissolving to disappear before your very eyes.

“See how fun she is?” Dean directs at Michael. “Always has been a little firecracker.”

You’re panting heavily with the exertion from your struggles, and the reality of how very (probably  _literally_ ) fucked you are begins to sink in.

A menacing smile parts the archangels lips as he watches you, the tip of his tongue peeking out between perfect teeth.

“I like a fighter,” he says, dark. The words sound so wrong, so twisted under the disguise of Dean Winchester’s voice.

New terror washes over you at the realization of what is about to happen. And your lack of control to stop it.

“N—no!” you protest. “Dean—” You twist your head toward the demon as much as his choke hold will allow, “—Dean, please…just let me go. I don’t  _want_ this!” You hate how shaky, how infantile your voice sounds right now, but you can’t help it, you’re just so  _scared._

“Yet,” the demon corrects. “You don’t want this  _yet_.” He brings the arm still coiled around your middle up to drape over your chest, where his hand finds your right breast, gently kneading the fabric-covered mound of flesh. “You’ll be begging for it soon enough, honey.”

A breathless sob escapes you at that—you’re no match for either one of them  _alone,_ much less together.

But the real problem is how everything between your legs is slicking up from Dean’s hands on you. And he isn’t even touching your skin.

“You ever had blowjob, Mike?”

Oh, god.

“Hell,” Dean continues, brushing a thumb over your nipple in a way that sends electricity buzzing through every nerve, “you ever fucked—or been fucked, at all?’

“I’m a celestial  _being,_ peasant,” Michael clips. “And if you haven’t noticed, I’ve a bit of a  _distaste_  for humans.”

“Oh, you don’t know what you’re missin’, buddy…but don’t worry - we’ll guide ya through it. Won’t we, sweetheart?” Dean directs at you, giving your stiffening peak a quick pinch.

“Please don’t make me do this,” you whisper.

“Aw, come on, baby,” the demon drawls. “Don’t be like that…you love suckin’ my dick. Besides—human Dean’s in there somewhere, ain’t he? He’ll get to enjoy it, too.”

Jesus, he’s talking like this is the most normal fucking thing in the world, like he’s not about to force you on the supernatural leader of the new apocalypse. The creature that had—against his will—taken over your boyfriend’s body.

This is too much, it’s all too much. “No,” you say flatly, “I won’t do it.”

“That so?” Dean rumbles lowly behind you. “Let’s see if I can change your mind.” He lets the arm around your throat drop to cross the arm around your waist, his lips ghosting across your ear, “How about…you get on your knees and suck his cock…or I’ll bend you over this table and fuck your tight little ass.” He swings his hips against you for emphasis.

Fresh panic grips you at the threat—you’re not getting out of this.

“N-no,  _please—_ I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

“ _Good_  girl…knew you’d have a change of heart.” He presses a warm kiss against your temple.

And then begins walking you toward the bound archangel.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings for Dub/Non-con.

The chair Michael sits in isn’t completely under the library table, but it’s close enough that Dean has to scoot him back a little, allowing you space to kneel in front of him. You don’t feel like you’re in your own body, like your muscles are on autopilot as you lower yourself to the floor, coming to a rest on your heels.

“Hey!” Michael suddenly snaps, his booming voice bouncing off the old walls. “You gonna keep your end, or am I gonna have to smite you after all?”

“I’m a man of my word…” Dean assures him, voice even.“Just relax, let her work her magic on ya a little bit.” He gives the angel a solid pat on the shoulder before stepping to the side, squatting down to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“Now, you’re gonna be a good girl, right? You’re gonna work him over real good, get him nice and hard.” You give him the biggest doe eyes you can muster, silently pleading with him one last time to not put you through this. No luck. He dips his head, gives you a warning stare from underneath his brows. “ _Right?_ ” he repeats.

Your eyes dart from his face to the floor before you give him a timid, consenting nod.

“Atta girl,” he says, giving you another quick peck to the temple. “Oh—by the way, you bite him? You ain’t gonna have  _teeth_  afterwards.” Your cheeks burn, stomach muscles knotted as you give him another understanding nod.

“Alright…get to it, then.”

You have to force yourself to bring your eyes to Michael, who simply sits there, head slightly cocked to the side in what can only be curiosity. The urge to run is strong—Michael is restrained and Dean is a good two feet away, if you could just get up fast enough…but you know it would never work, Dean would easily catch you. And you don’t want to even  _think_  about what would happen when he did.

So you find yourself leaning forward, heart pounding wildly as you reach up to open the archangel’s slacks—

No. Dean’s slacks.  _This is Dean’s body,_  you remind yourself. The thought makes it a little easier to slip your hand underneath the wasteband, a little easier to wrap your hand around him, pulling him free.

He’s still a bit flaccid, but quickly swelling against your palm, and he gives a little sigh at the warmth of your skin on his. You give him only one stroke before closing your eyes and ducking down to take him into your mouth.

Michael groans low in his throat when you close your lips around him, and you can feel him twitch with growing interest against your tongue. You flick your eyes up to find his head tipped down, lips parted with deepening breaths as he watches you.

You hate how the familiarity of the situation sends electric currents straight to your core, the delicious weight of him in your mouth, the salty taste of his flesh—

“Move, sweetheart.” The demon’s voice beside you makes your heart skip a beat. “Don’t make me talk you through this.”

You heed his warning, gathering your hair up with both hands to pile on top of your head, sliding your lips down the angel’s hardening length until the tip brushes the back wall of your throat.

“There ya go,” Dean encourages as you glide back, leaving a glistening trail along the

shaft. “Take him deep, honey. Show him what’cha can do.” You soundlessly obey, slowly slicking back down until his balls tickle your chin, the thickening head bulging your throat.

You cough around him, immediately swallowing to stifle your gag reflex, and then hollow your cheeks, suctioning your lips around the fleshy column as you slide back to the tip, where you start a rapid rhythm up and down his length.

The archangel is fully hard now, and your mouth struggles to accommodate his thickness as you bob up and down.

You increase your speed with every wet pass and then the angel is bucking his hips, shoving his length further into your throat as he moans in blissful pleasure. Your hair falls around your face as you bring your hands down to brace against the muscled thighs of Michael’s vessel.

You can’t stop your own moans as you work him over. You can’t help it, your body responding to the familiar cock in your mouth, the familiar scent of him. Your hand itches to dive down the front of your jeans, desperate for just a little friction.

“See?” Dean suddenly asks, “She fuckin’ loves sucking cock.”

Michael makes a sound like he’s about to say something, but the words don’t seem to be able to break through the strangled, pebbly groans bubbling from his throat. Dean chuckles.

Your knees hurt, aching from the effort of supporting your weight against the hard floor. You shift a little to relieve some of the pressure, fingers pressing into the soft material of the angel’s slacks, taking deep breaths through your nose as he thrusts into your mouth.

It only takes a few more seconds for hips to falter, urgent sounds spewing from his lips.

“Okay, stop—” Hands grab at your shoulders, pulling you to your feet, off of Michael’s swollen length.

The archangel pants, turns his head, icy-blue eyes trained on the demon behind you, the demon that’s snaking his arms back around your middle. He rests his chin on the top of your head, and you can feel his scruff scraping against your scalp as he speaks,

“Calm down, Mikey. I’m not about to just let you blow your load before you’ve taken her pussy for a spin….Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

_Shit._

“That’s gonna be little difficult,” Michael grits, “considering I’m still chained—”

Dean stretches an arm out in front of him (and you), big hand curling into a shaky fist.  Your brows knit, you don’t understand—and that’s when you see it: the wardings etched into Michael’s chains glow a hellish red, and then unclasp all at once with a chorused clinking sound. He smirks a silent thank you at Dean and then rises to stand between chair and table, cock bouncing proud as gravity pulls the chains down to pool at his feet.

You feel so tiny trapped between the two creatures, so helpless.  _Prey,_  you think.  _You’re prey._

And suddenly, Dean’s hands are fisting the collar at the the front of your shirt, and with  _impossible_  strength, he’s tearing it right down the middle with a carrying  _riiiiip_. He slips the destroyed fabric off your shoulders, down your arms. Your bra is gone in a blink, calloused hands going straight for your bare breasts, warm palms and fingers roughly squeezing and groping at the soft flesh.

“Nice, huh?” Dean grunts. Michael drags his tongue across his vessel’s full lower lip, eyes fading back to dark green as he drinks you in.

And then Dean gets a grip on your hips, rushing you toward the table, a hand pushing hard at your back until your hands smack against the cool, smooth surface. You gasp, letting your body gently drop until your breasts are smushed against the polished wood. You turn your head to the side, facing the large bowl of failed-spell ingredients.

_How the hell did you end up here?_

Michael watches you with heavy-lidded eyes and set jaw, standing next to his previously-occupied chair, fisting the furiously red length of his cock.

You close your eyes, “W-wait! Can we just—”

But then your eyes pop open when Dean wrenches your jeans open, tugging them down over your hips, taking your panties with them to pool around your ankles. You shiver as cool air meets newly-exposed skin, and your cheeks reignite at how very exposed you are in front of two identical sets of hungry eyes.

A boot rasps between your feet, kicking them as far apart as the fabric around your ankles will permit, and then warm breath fans against your glistening lower lips—

“Dean, please—oh god…” Your protests die in your throat as a velvet tongue runs a thick stripe up your folds.

“Mmm,” the demon groans, “you’re already dripping—I’m not even gonna hafta work it outta you, am I?” The heat of your cheeks shoots up another degree at the truth of his words. And then he’s working a thick finger into you, easily slicking in to the last knuckle. Another finger joins in, and a visceral groan escapes you as he begins to steadily pump you open.

There’s no sound now, no sound but the wet squelch of your cunt happily swallowing Dean’s rough fingers. Your hands find the edge of the table, fingers curling around the wood to anchor yourself while the demon massages your inner walls.

“Whaddya think, honey? You need a third finger?” You cunt clenches in enthusiasm. Dean chuckles, “I’ll take that as a yes…”

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps when he sicks a third digit inside, stretching you open, the slight burn is  _heavenly_ , the pleasure of it zipping to every cell in your body.

His pace doesn’t change, doesn’t falter, just an easy in-and-out rhythm that nearly has you shaking. You whimper when he withdraws his fingers, smearing your arousal along your folds before pulling away completely.

“Okay, baby,” Dean murmurs, “you ready for cock?” A choked sound tumbles between your lips. “Yeah,” the demon sniggers, “she’s ready.”

There’s a shuffling of feet against the hard floor, and then Dean is rounding the table. You right your head, chin resting against the surface and then he get s a grip on your upper arms, pulling you up until you’re braced on your forearms.

You stiffen at movement behind you, jolting when a big hand curls around your bare hip.

“Ya know where ta stick it?” Dean grumbles, working his pants open, “or do I need to demonstrate?”

You recoil at his crudeness, wishing desperately that you could just disappear.

“Watch it,” the archangel warns from behind you, “or I might just smite you for the fun of it.”

The demon chuckles, freeing his hardened length from his jeans. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Pinned between the two creatures, you have no choice but to submit—and deep down, you realize, with a kind of sickening enthusiasm, that you want to. How fucked are you, that you fucking  _want_  this?

With a trembling breath, you part your lips. Dean has to angle his cock downward at the height difference, but it easily slips inside the wet heat of your mouth. He groans when you close your mouth around him, and you almost groan right back when something smooth and blunt—and warm— swipes up and down your folds.

Rolling heat tumbles up your body as Michael works his length into you. He’s surprisingly gentle as he pushes in, and your jaw goes a little slack at the delicious fill.

“Oh,” Dean groans, “I think she likes you.”

And then with a  _SNAP_ , the angel shoves himself all the way in, the force of it driving your mouth over more of the demon’s shaft, causing you to choke.

“Oh, fuck…” Dean moans as the muscles in your throat constrict around him. He threads his fingers throught your hair, fitting his palms flat around the sides of your skull, holding you to him. You sputter and gag around his swelling thickness until he finally rocks his hips back, allowing you to cough and pant as you gulp in fresh oxygen.

You feel a finger-splayed hand smooth up your back, over your spine—

“Got a knife?” the deep voice behind you rumbles.

_What the—_

“Why?” the demon asks, “You a necrophiliac”?

“That’s revolting,” Michael replies. “No, I want to see her bleed.”

“No!” you cry, “Please,  _please_ don’t do that—I’ll do anyth—”

“Shhh,” the demon breathes, stroking his fingers through your hair, nails scraping against your scalp. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be juuust fine.”

And then Dean brings a hand away to disappear behind him, only to return with a small knife, steel glittering under the bunker lights. The blade isn’t a large one, only about four inches, but it’s  _sharp_. Just the thought of the thing piercing into you sends you into a shaking panic.

“Please, Dean,” you whimper, “don’t let him do this! I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

“S’okay, honey. Just relax. We’ll make it good for you.” He strokes a thumb over your cheek as the hands the weapon over your head, to the archangel behind you. “Fuck her a little first.” Dean says.“I want some good head before you start cuttin’ on her.”

Michael heeds Dean’s suggestion and starts to move, rocking back to roughly fuck back in. When he finds a steady rhythm, the demon cups you under the jaw, tilting your head up to guide his length back to your lips. You obediently open your mouth, let him sink back into your velvet heat as both of his hands find their previous place on your head.

It’s a little uncanny how quickly Dean finds, and matches, Michaels pace—but they are, in a way, one in the same, you idly acknowledge.

Your blunt fingernails scrape against the smooth wood of the table, searching for purchase as you’re roughly fucked from both ends.

“Use some more tongue, baby,” Dean instructs as he quickly thrusts in and out of your mouth. You try your best to focus, to obey, but it’s difficult with Michael’s deep-steady strokes into your weeping cunt. You manage to press your tongue into the embossed vein on the underside of his cock, tensing the wet muscle against him as he bucks into you.

“That’s my good girl, fuck—” the demon grits through clenched teeth as he fucks into your throat.

The angel suddenly stills his hips—

“Whoa!” Dean bites, “A little warning, please? I ain’t havin’ my dick in her mouth when you’re cuttin’ on her, man! She’ll bite it clean off.”

You freeze, muscles tensing into stone as you brace for the pain.

Michael chuckles at Dean’s outburst as he waits for the demon to pull away, leaning warm-fabricy weight against you. You hiccup in fear while Dean bends at the knees, squatting to align his face with yours,

“Just relax, sweetheart…” You grit your teeth, glaring at him in defiance. He wouldn’t be so relaxed if it was  _him_  bent over the fucking table.

“That’s good, baby,” he continues, “look at me while he slices you up nice and pretty.” He blinks, jade eyes flooding to nothing-black. You slam your eyes shut—and then a meaty palm is thumping against your cheek, “Nuh-uh, I said  _look_  at me, honey.” You obey, whimpering softly as you peel your lids open.

Your teeth clack together when cool steel meets the flesh over your right shoulder blade, pressing steadily until you feel the tip sink white-hot into your skin. Moisture gathers at the brim of your eyes at the searing pain that intensifies when he drags the weapon down and you can feel the blood bubbling up through the laceration—the fluid feels cool against your heated skin.

The blade leaves you briefly, and you think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s just toying with you, but then it’s back, pressing what feels like a millimeter to the right of the wound.

You struggle to keep your eyes open, to keep them locked on the black abyss of Dean’s eyes. Your lashes flutter in the effort, and then the demon is pressing his forehead against yours, combing thick fingers through your hair in some kind of twisted display of comfort.

A thin layer of sweat coats your skin as Michael continues the short, shallow slices into your slickening flesh. It almost feels like he’s…writing something?

You’re trembling at the pain now, jaw clenched painfully tight, every nerve in your body on damage control. Dean tilts his head, tongue rolling out from between perfect lips to lick at your own—

“Open,” he whispers, and you yield, relaxing your jaw to part your lips so he can delve his tongue in deep, pressing the hot velvety muscle against yours as he groans into your mouth. You gasp, both from the steadily-rising pain and the shock of the demon’s tongue in your mouth, scratchy-soft lips working against yours.

It seems impossible, underneath the agonizing, fiery-hot sting of your flesh, but there’s a warm trickle of pleasure permeating from Dean’s kiss, winding its way down to your cunt—that suddenly clenches around Michael’s buried length, pulling a groan from his throat.

Dean pulls away, sucking at your bottom lip as goes to rise to his full height.

“What is that?” he asks.

“My name…” Michael answers, voice thick with  _isn’t-that-obvious_.

“That Enochian?”

“It is,” the archangel replies, he sounds impressed that Dean recognizes the ancient alphabet.

The muscles in your back spasm, twitching in blazing pain, when the blade finally leaves you—only for something soft, warm, and wet to swipe over the oozing cuts. It happens again, and you realize that Michael is  _licking_  up the blood trickling from your slashed flesh—and then he’s sealing stolen lips around the entire wound, sucking the iron fluid into his mouth. You can hear him smack his lips together as he pulls away—

“Got a taste for human blood? Thought you had a…what was it? ‘Distaste’ for human flesh.” Dean quips, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I have a taste for human  _suffering_ ,” the angel corrects, earning him a deep chuckle from the demon.

“Looks so awesome, baby,” Dean directs at you. “You got an angel’s brand on you. Forever.” You whimper as he sniggers, “An angel on one shoulder…how ‘bout a demon on the other?”

“N-no! Dean—don’t!”

“Not right now, sugar,” he promises. “Let’s get this pussy to come first.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warnings for dub/non-con

The scorching, stinging pain in your shoulder is reaching unbearable, and you wish you would just pass out already. The fresh wound is still weeping steadily, the blood tickling across your skin.

Dean leans forward, gets one hand braced on the table, the other around the fat base of his cock. You’re trembling underneath the pain, breathy groans pushing out between clenched teeth. The demon ignores your agony, instead pressing the broad tip of his length against your lips.

“Please,” you grunt against slippery smooth skin, “it hurts.”

“I know, honey,” Dean rumbles in mock sympathy, “but you’re about to be rewarded. So open up.”

It takes all your strength to part your lips, but you comply, opening your jaw to allow him to slip back inside. Your inner muscles twitch as Michael stirs inside you, big hands curling back around your hips, paying you no care as he rocks back, only to harshly slam back in. It takes but a few seconds before he finds his earlier rhythm, his brutal thrusts forcing your mouth up and down the thick heft of Dean’s cock.

You’re breathing out thready, shallow bursts through your nose, your brain quickly dizzying from the lack of oxygen. Your biceps burn from the strain of holding your weight up, the bolts of your jaw aching from holding your mouth open.

Michael groans as he pumps into you, and you can tell by his wavering thrusts that he’s about to finish.

“Hey,” Dean suddenly grunts, “push her hips down against the table.”

Michael stills, “How ‘bout you stop ordering me around?” he pants.

“Just trust me,” the demon replies, brushing a thumb over the bulge in your cheek.

The angel pushes out an irritated huff, but gets a finger-splayed hand on the small of your back, pressing down until your pelvic bone is mashed against the smooth wood.

When Michael starts to move again, you understand. Every forceful plunge rocks your clit right into the slick varnish of the table— _hard_ — sending hot sparks of pleasure pinging under your skin. The blazing gashes in your back begin to feel distant now; dulled under your building arousal.

Michael’s palm stays flush against your back as he ratchets you higher, fingers denting into your flesh. You moan involuntarily around Dean’s length—it just feels so  _good_ , the way the archangel fucks into you so  _deep_  underneath the delicious slippery-slide of your clit against the hard surface.

Dean hardly moves; Michael’s pistoning hips sliding your wet lips over and over the demon’s cock, the wide head punching the back wall of your throat on every descent.

Stoccato grunts push from the angel’s throat as his hips begin to falter again—He shifts, hitting a spot that sends your whole body  _tingling._

Your orgasm comes out of nowhere when he hits it again, garbled noises spilling from your mouth to vibrate around the thick shaft in your mouth, your slick walls clamping down around Michael’s length—

A deep growl reverberates around the room as the archangel spills hot and syrupy inside you—shit, you can  _feel_  him pulsing hot—and then he’s slicking out, sticky wet dripping warm down your thighs.

There’s movement, a sound; something grating against the floor, and from your peripherals you see Michael slumping heavy into a chair.

Your cunt aches now that it’s empty, hot wet still slowly oozing from your entrance. Dean curls his fingers into your hair, finding purchase as he starts to fuck into your mouth. The hot burn in your shoulder begins to make itself known once again as your climax ebbs, but then there’s a sharp, eye-watering pain at your scalp as the demon tightens his grip on your hair, breathy pants turning into deep grunts as he bucks into you.

Your knuckles ache as your fingers curl hard around the sharp edge of the table, the wood biting into the under-curve of them.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck- _fuck!”_ Dean bellows as he repeatedly drives into your mouth—

You don’t get a warning, just a punishing pull at your hair as hot, salty jets hit the back of your throat, coating your tongue. The pain at your skull begins to recede as the demon releases you, fisting himself as he slips out of your mouth.

You pull yourself forward; leaning your head down to spit his climax on the floor when he suddenly grabs you by the jaw, forcing your head back, fingertips pressing into your skin with bruising strength, “Uh-uh, drink it all down, baby.”

You give him a hardened glare as you swallow his thick spendings, but he just grins, brings a thumb to the corner of your mouth to swipe at a creamy glob before pushing the digit between your lips, onto your tongue. He turns his head, 

“Ain’t she a wild ride?”

There’s a tense pause, and then, “She is, I’ll give you that.”

“Can—can I go now?” you ask, voice soft; tiny.

Dean rolls his head back toward you, “Oh, you ain’t goin’ anywhere, honey…’specially not without  _my_ mark.”

Your heart drops, you’d been hoping he’d forgotten,

“No, please—it hurts—I’m  _hurt!”_

“S’just a little blood, kiddo. You’ve had worse n’that.” Dean’s eyes are green, but the way they darkly bore into you makes you a little nauseous.

“Hey—come hold her down for me.”

_God, no._

You curl in on yourself as Michael approaches, knuckles still blanched around the table. He’s tucked himself away, but his slacks are unfastened, white dress shirt hanging loose and wrinkled. He bends at the waist, curling big hands around your small wrists, pressing them hard against the shiny wood. He smirks down on your smaller form, and you scrunch your eyes shut when the jade of his eyes morphs into ice blue.

Dean’s heavy boots rasp against the hard floor as he moves to your rear,

“You got the knife?”

You keep your eyes welded shut, but you can hear the movement, know Michael’s passing the blade to Dean.

“Okay, babydoll. I’m gonna let you choose—full name, or initials?”

You pause, “Initials…” There’s a questioning lilt at the end of your response. Of course you’d choose the shorter optiom, why would he even ask—

“Thought you’d say that,” the demon chuckles. “Full name it is.”

 _Shit_.

“Wait! Please, just—”

“You just relax, now. Gonna hurt more if you tense up.”

You growl a curse at him,  _of_   _course_  you know how much it hurts. The scorching at your right shoulder reminds you of it. Dean knows it, too.

“My last name’s a little lengthy,” the demon mutters, like you don’t know,

“so this might take a while.”

*****

Several minutes later, Michael’s fingers are curved around the base of your skull; palms warm against you, big thumbs stroking through the the hot tears streaking down your flushed cheeks.

You’re shaking uncontrollably, nerves screaming in piercing pain. “There.” Dean rumbles behind you, “Done. We’re all done, sweetheart.” You tense, hissing when a thumb swipes across the fresh, pulsing wound.

“This looks great, honey. Just like a new tattoo.”

Your lips twitch as you form your words, “Monsters,” you hoarsely croak, “you’re both  _monsters_.”

“Think so, huh?” Dean muses. “Well. Whaddya think Mike? Should we let her go?”

Michael grins, dark and blinding. “Nah,” he says, sparkling canine sinking into his plush lower lip,

“I’ve got an idea.”


	5. Chapter 4

Your staccato hisses melt into the steaming spray jetting from the shower head, the hot stream punishing against the screaming cuts etched into your back.

The heat and the pain seem to be the only things tethering you to reality; you feel a little floaty, a little dreamy. Like none of this is  _really_  happening, but you can still hear the exchange playing on repeat in your head.

_“What kind of idea?” Dean had asked, a hint of excitement underlining the question._

_“That boy…Jack. I haven’t seen such power in centuries.” Michael marveled as you twitched, still strung over the library table._

_“Jack?” Dean parroted. Of course the demon had no idea about the devil’s spawn. Dean himself merely a manifestation of a years-old memory._

_“The nephilim…Lucifer’s son.”_

_“Lucifer has a kid?” Dean asked, dumbfounded._

_“Had,” Michael corrected, “he had a son. With a human.”_

_“Sonofabitch,” Dean breathed. “Is he…y’know. Like him?”_

_“No, he uh…he teamed up with you_ Winchesters _.” He says the name like it’s the most vile word on the planet._

_“Huh.”_

_“More power than either of us could ever dream of.” Michael had continued._

_“So. You wanna take him out,” Dean concluded._

_“Partly,” the archangel admitted. “He is my only remaining obstacle—not including your brother.”_

_The demon had grunted amusedly at that. “And what’s the other part?”_

_“Imagine,” Michael had mused after a significant pause, “if I had an army of nephilim, imagine what I could accomplish.”_

_You’d locked up at that, he couldn’t be insinuating what you thought he was._

_Dean laughed, low and dark, “I don’t give two shits what you could accomplish. We ain’t exactly buds, ya know.”_

_“Fine.” Michael spat, “We closed one deal tonight, how about another?”_

_“I’m listening…” Dean drawled after a beat._

_“It’s quite simple, really. You stay outta my way, and I won’t kill you.”_

_Dean’s silent a moment—either soaking in his words, or bristling up for a fight. Maybe both._

_“You ain’t gonna get an army outta one girl.”_

_You saw Michael shrug out of the corner of your eye,_

_“I’ll get as many as I can.”_

_*****_

So here you are, standing under the gritty motel shower head, in god-knows-where, USA trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to get out of here. You’d prayed to Cas, but he isn’t showing—they’ve either got him warded, or he’s with Sam, calculating a plan himself.

Neither one of the monsters sleep, you won’t be able to sneak out. There’s no car, you’d all ended up here via a two finger press to the forehead. Frustrated, you slap a hand against the wet, filmy tile.

You’re stuck here; a once skilled hunter reduced to a fucking breeding cow. If you get out of this alive, you’re going to strangle that red-headed witch with your bare hands.

_BAM-BAM-BAM!_

You jump, nearly slipping on the slick fiberglass of the tub at the sudden pounding on the door.

“You’ve been in there twenty minutes, get your ass out here!” You can tell it’s the demon by the low, rough timbre of his muffled voice.

“Fuck,” you breathe, heart still hammering. “Coming!” you bark, the old knob squealing as you turn off the water. You throw a bleached towel around you, not bothering to dry yourself off as you pad to the door, flinging it open.

Dean’s standing inches from you, arms folded across his chest, thick muscles straining against the burgundy sleeves of his button down. The mid-afternoon sunlight seeps through the open curtains, casting the room in a natural, warm glow.

“Where’s Michael?” you ask, tightening the towel around you.

“Went out to getcha some food. You need to eat.”

“Like…went out-out? He couldn’t just…ya know, snap something here?”

Dean smiles then, that wide cocky smile you hate so much, takes a small step forward to coil a burly arm around your waist, crushing you to his chest.

“Told him I wanted ya to myself a little bit.”

You immediately tense against him, “No—Dean, no!” You manage to get both hands against his shoulders, shoving with all your strength in a feeble attempt to push him away.

“Shit, relax, kid,” the demon chuckles, reaching a hand up to swipe away a clump of wet hair clinging to your cheek.

“Why are you letting him do this to me?” you whisper, raising wide eyes to his.

He shrugs, “Ain’t like I have much of a choice. ‘Sides, he’s still sharin’ ya with me, so why not?”

You rock back in his grip, push out a disgusted scoff, “You’re unbelievable. I’m going to  _die_ , Dean,” you inform him, flashbacks of Kelly Kline streaking behind your eyes. “I won’t survive the delivery—he’ll be lucky if he gets  _one_  monster out of me.”

He shrugs again, “So? He’s an angel, he’ll just bring ya back.”

“Jesus  _Christ_ ,” you whisper, “have you lost all your brain cells? Michael is  _not_  an ally—he’s going to kill  _you_  as soon as he gets what he wants—”

“We made a deal,” Dean interrupts. “That’s—”

“It’s  _Michael!_ ” you’re yelling now, dumbfounded that he could be so naive. “I’d trust  _Lucifer_  before him—”

The sound of the door opening cuts you off, both of your heads turning as Michael thumps into the room, dropping the paper takeout bag and drink onto the small window-side table.  He shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair.

“Am I…interrupting something?” he smirks, pulling the chair back to slump his weight into it.

“No,” you hiss, directing an icy stare towards Dean, who merely grins back.

“Good. Then eat,” Michael says, jerking his head toward the table.

*****

You check the time on the bedside clock as you lean against the headboard of the bed, legs drawn up tight against your front. It’s 9:00 p.m. And you know you aren’t going to be getting much sleep tonight.

You hear the faint sound of running water from Dean’s shower permeating through the paper-thin wall. You hope he takes a long one.

Michael sits on the opposite bed, black slack-clad legs hooked over the side of the mattress, hands denting into the blankets at either side of his hips. He looks tense, on guard, eyes blankly fixed on the dark window. You catch his dark gaze briefly, quickly flicking yours back to the muted television ahead, fingers anxiously playing with the hem of your cotton night shorts.

The angel suddenly  _surges_  forward, strong shoulders shaking with an invisible strain.

“No!” he grunts, “Stay—down!”

You frantically scoot to the edge of your bed, farthest away from him as you watch him convulse with wide, panic-stricken eyes.

“N-no!” he chokes, “You can’t—”

He goes silent, chest heaving with heavy pants as his eyes find yours. You watch as his face shifts, shit, he looks like—

“Dean?” you breathe. “Dean, is that—”

“Shh!” He brings a trembling index finger against his twitching lips, throws a hand out toward you in a stopping gesture as he whips his head back briefly to check the bathroom.

He whispers your name, and yes—oh god  _yes_ , that’s him. That’s Dean,  _your_  Dean.

“Listen to me,” he hisses, “I can’t hold him for long—run. You gotta run, babe.”

“What? Where? I don’t have a car, how am I gonna—”

“Run, run until you fuckin’ can’t anymore. Steal a car—whatever! You gotta get outta here.”

Hot moisture stings at your eyes as a sudden wave of emotion crashes over you.

“What about you? Dean—”

“I can’t  _hold_  him!” he repeats, green eyes boring into you. “He’s coming back—I can feel him—fuck! Go, dammit—just go!”

A lone tear slips down your cheek as you give the hunter one last look before throwing yourself off the bed.

You don’t bother looking for shoes, don’t even bother with closing the door as you sprint out into the night.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rough, guys. I'm sorry...

Loose gravel and rough asphalt tear into your feet as they pound across the black parking lot. You wince through the pain, determined to make good of this golden miracle of opportunity.

The secluded location your captors have chosen is a good one; there doesn’t seem to be any sign of civilization either direction from the cheap motel standing just off the highway. It’s quiet. Too quiet, not even the rumbling sound of traffic.

You skid to a sudden, panting stop when you reach the road, conflicted on which direction to take. Something inside you pulls you to the right, and it only takes you a second to resume your pumping sprint.

Your thighs ache, lungs burning with exertion; but you don’t stop, don’t dare look behind you. You’ll run until you pass out if you have to.

The sound of a car engine in the distance plants fresh hope in your chest—

And then,  _yes_ , twin headlights peek over the dark hill, looming closer and closer. You dart out onto the highway, arms frantically waving over your head, uncaring if the driver sees you or not—you can’t risk letting your possible escape slip—or drive—away.

The sedan comes to a screeching halt, headlights blinding as it stops mere inches in front of you. You scramble to the driver’s side window, slapping both hands against the glass.

The middle aged man behind the wheel is visibly startled, frightened brown eyes blown wide behind black-rimmed glasses.

It takes him a moment, but he finally lowers the window halfway as you take a step back, “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

“N-no,” you breathlessly stammer, “please, you have to help me—I’ve been kidnapped and I don’t know where I am—” You stop, gulping in a strangled breath. “Please, just take me to the nearest place of business, somewhere with people—”

“Calm down, Miss,” the man says, voice soft; soothing. “Hop on in, I’ll—”

“ _Sweetheart_ , there you are…”

You whip around at the familiar voice—

_No. No-no-no-no-no!_

The demon stands in front of you, wet-headed and relaxed. He’s smiling too wide.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Dean says, eyes softening into phony concern. He snakes an arm around your waist, gently pulling you against him. “See, my wife here suffers from PTSD and night terrors. She’s military, served two tours in Afghanistan.”

The driver nods as the demon speaks, but his eyes dance skeptically between the two of you.

You wrench yourself around in Dean’s hold, twisting until you’re facing the man. “No!” you squeal, fighting against the arm coiled around you, “He’s one of them! Please—”

“Here,” Dean grunts from behind you. He steps to your side, uncoils his arm, leaving his hand curved softly at your waist in a faux performance of the loving and concerned husband. He reaches a hand behind him and icy panic seizes you as you prepare for the blade—

Only for him to withdraw a small slip of white paper. “That’s us,” Dean says, voice soft as he hands the blank square to the man, “on our wedding day.”

The driver smiles tight, sympathy heavy in his eyes as they glide over the paper. You reach forward, diving your hand inside the car to snatch the ‘photo’ out of the man’s fingers.

You frown deeply at the imageless item in your hand; it looks to be just a palm-sized cut-out of blank printer paper. “There’s nothing here!” you blurt, voice squeaking. Dean tightens his fingers at your hip as your panic rises. “It’s blank! Can’t you see that?! It’s just  _paper!_ ” You’re bordering on hysterical, and the stranger visibly shifts uncomfortably against the leather seat. “This isn’t my husband! He kidnapped me!” You surge forward, but Dean slips his arm back around your middle, pulling you against him while he shushes into your ear.

“Please!” you screech, jerking wildly against Dean’s heavy arm, “You have to believe me!”

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger says slowly, eyes darting between you and Dean, who is no doubt feigning the struggle of a man dealing with a mentally ill wife. “I pray you get the help you need…and—and I thank you for your service.”

“No!” you scream as the car shifts back into drive. “He’s lying! Please!”

But then the car rolls forward, picking up speed as it disappears into the night. When the rumbling engine fades into quiet, you snap. “YOU SONOFABITCH!” you roar, twisting out of Dean’s hold to slap him hard across his grinning face. His smile dissolves then, his hand catching your wrist mid-strike.

“You’re in  _enough_  trouble,” he rumbles cooly, fingers tightening around your wrist with a bruising pressure. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“How?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you do that? Did you make him see it?”

Dean blinks at you quizzically until it clicks, “Ah, the picture. Yeah, one of the many demon perks,” he grins. “Just popped it in the dude’s brain.”

“You’re a monster,” you sneer.

“So you’ve said,” Dean smirks. “C’mon, let’s walk back.” Dean slips a hand around your waist, “Give Mike a chance to cool off.”  

You freeze mid-step, forcing Dean to a sudden halt. “No, wait— please—I can’t go back there… _Please_ , he’ll kill me!” you hiss, wide eyes beseeching his. You’re well aware of the absurdity of begging a  _demon_ to protect you from an angel, but in your mind this is still your Dean…or a mangled semblance of him at the very least.

“You want me to protect you, baby?” He asks sweetly, brushing warm fingers across your cheek. You can’t bring yourself to do anything but pathetically nod into his big palm.

“Why should I?” The abrupt change of his tone sends cold dread settling deep into your gut.

“You ran from both of us. You think I’m  _happy_ about that?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Dean’s hand falls from your face as he suddenly grips you by the upper arm, jerking you along as he begins long strides back toward the motel.

“Ow!” you grit through clenched teeth. “You’re an  _idiot_  if you think you he’s gonna spare you,” you bite. “He’s gonna kill us all.”

“We made a deal,” Dean counters, voice light.

“Jesus, Dean! You’re not stupid—you  _can’t_ be that stupid.”

“ _Who’s_  stupid?” Dean thunders, gravel crunching under leather boots as he grinds to a stop. Black blots out the streetlight-lit green of his eyes. “I’m not the one who ran away! On foot. From a demon and an  _archangel._ ”

“I hope I’m still alive when he smites you,” you whisper, gliding your narrowed, heated gaze up at him.

Pain blooms across your cheek as the demon cracks his palm against you, your hand immediately flying up to soothe the reddening sting.

The fingers roughly curled around your arms press deeper into your flesh as he jerks you to his chest, free hand closing around your throat, tilting your face up and back.

“Keep it up.” Dean sneers, upper lip curling over ivory teeth. “You thought last time was bad?” His mouth splits into gleeful grin. “Oh,  _baby._  You don’t  _know_  pain yet.”

The threatening statement is enough to reduce you into petrified silence as you resume the short walk back to hell.

*****

“Found her!” the demon bellows proudly as he shoves you into the motel room. You lose your footing, tumbling to your hands and knees against the rough, dingy carpet, back muscles stiffening painfully under the scabbed brands.

Michael still sits perched on the edge of the bed, and for a fleeting moment you think it might still be Dean. But the anger glazed over his glassy, unblinking eyes quickly squashes any fragments of hope.

“Have a nice chat with your boyfriend?” the angel asks, voice slow; calculating.

“Please, don’t hurt him…” you whimper.

“Oh, I’m not gonna hurt him. Not physically.”

“What? What do you—”

Michael’s eyes slip up to the demon behind you.“Get her on the bed,” he orders. “On her back. Hold her down.”

“First of all,” Dean grumbles, jerking you to your feet by the back of your shirt, “I’m not doin’  _shit_  until I get a ‘please’. Two: you’re pissed, man—you got all that…hot, angry grace boilin’ in your veins. You fuck her now, you’ll probably kill her.”

“Oh, I’m not… ‘fucking’ her,” the angel says, fingers crooked into air quotations.

“Dean is.”

_WHAT?_

“You friggin’ nuts?” the demon asks, “So you’re, what, gonna just let him take over? He’ll reject you.”

“That’s where you come in,” Michael grins. “If he doesn’t cooperate, you slit her throat.”

Dean scoffs behind you, “She dies, your whole plan goes down the shitter.”

“I can bring her back,” the angel shrugs. “But he still gets to watch the life drain from her pretty eyes.”

“Please don’t do this,” you whisper, wide eyes achored to Michael’s. You swallow, “I’m sorry I ran—it was stupid and I should have known better…I won’t do it again,  _please!_ ”

Michael purses Dean’s lips, tips his head down condescendingly, “I know you won’t, and I know you’ve learned your lesson…but that doesn’t exempt you from the consequences.”

“Then let  _me_ suffer the consequences! Leave Dean out of this, he didn’t do anything!”

“Oh, but he did,” the archangel argues. “He told you to run…He’s the very  _reason_  this is happening.”

“ _Pleas_ e—”

“So, Dean,” Michael’s eyes shift back to the demon. “Would you  _please_  be so kind as to get her on the bed?”

“Better,” Dean clips.

And then you’re stumbling across the carpet as Dean  _hurls_  you onto the bed, your cuts screaming as you’re dragged up the blankets, the hem of your shirt rolling up your stomach to bunch just below your breasts.

You soon find yourself propped up against Dean’s solid abs, bowed knees crooked on either side of your shoulders. A large hand is draped across your collarbone, thumb hooked around a sleek, black knife handle, the cool blade resting against your pulse point. Another hand encircles both of your wrists locking them against your bare stomach.

The foot of the mattress dips with the weight of Michael’s knees as he inches toward you. He rests his finger-splayed hands against his slack-covered thighs and dips his chin to his chest, eyes closed as if he’s in a deep trance. The bolt of his jaw works underneath stubble-peppered skin and full lips twitch rhythmically as his eyes dart back and forth behind curtained eyelids.

Dean gasps, blinking rapidly as he comes to full consciousness. His eyebrows knit as he takes in the sight of you, anger shadowing the emerald of his eyes as they slip up to the demon holding you down.

“Watch it,” the demon rasps, his deep rumble soaking into your bones. “All I gotta do is flick my wrist and it’s over.”

“Let her go,” Dean seethes.

“Nope. I know you know what’s goin’ on here, so I suggest you get to it.”

“I  _can’t_.” The hunter bites.

“Yes, ya can.” The demon pushes back, “Just ah, just pretend I’m not here.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

“You’d rather watch her die, then?”

“C’mon, man,” Dean winces. “We’re the same. I  _was_ you. You don’t wanna do this.”

“No…You still had a little  _human_ in you when you were in my shoes,” the demon corrects, “I’m not burdened with that.

“It’s okay, Dean,” you whisper, eyes soft on his, careful to keep your head still to prevent the knife from nicking your skin. “Just don’t think about it, get it over with.”

“Goddammit,” Dean breathes with a slow blink, eyes dancing as his mind battles. “Do what you want with me, just fuckin’ let her go… _please_.”

“One. Flick.” The demon warns.

Dean works his jaw, pained eyes hooking onto yours. He holds your gaze for a lifetime and then—

“Close your eyes, kid.”

And you do, you  _screw_  them shut as Dean tugs your shorts and panties down and off your legs. You suck in a sharp breath when a finger swipes through your folds.

“She’s dry,” you hear Dean say. “I can’t—just let me get her ready first.”

“Nuh-uh,” the demon grunts. “This is a punishment; fuck her dry.”

You freeze up at that; Dean is  _big_  and the stretch burns a little even when you’re aroused—this is going to  _hurt._

“I don’t think I can physically—”

You whimper as sharp steel pushes at your flesh.

“Fuck, okay! Stop—just fucking  _stop_.”

You breathe out a shaky breath of relief as the blade leaves you, gritting your teeth as you prepare for an entirely different kind of pain.

Warm hands lift the backs of your thighs, draping your legs over muscled, polyester-clad thighs. You tense when you feel the flared head of his cock push at your moistureless entrance.

“Deep breath, kid.” Dean murmurs, hands smoothing up your legs to curve around your bare hips.

You obey, inhaling deeply—but the air catches in your throat when the wide tip breaches your opening.

“Ow! God, stop!” You feel Dean freeze at your command—

“Keep. Going,” the demon grits.

The hunter’s deep baritone is soothing as it washes over you, “Just breathe, honey. I’m so sorry…”

Inch by excruciating inch, he pushes in and you swear you can feel the skin tearing to accomodate his thickness. You can’t fathom how he’s so hard already, Michael must have prepped him.

“Fuck,” Dean chokes. “I know, honey, hurts for me too.”

“God, just—just…it’s worse if you go slow,” you whimper.

“Okay,” Dean says, “count of three—”

“Oh, for fuck’s  _sake_!” the demon grumbles, pressing the knife harder against you. “Just fuck her.”

You scream when Dean suddenly snaps his hips forward and you feel a warmth trickling over your outer lips, a warmth that has nothing at all to do with arousal.

Your chest bobs rapidly with short, pained breaths as your cunt pulses in anguish around Dean’s length.

“I’m so sorry, honey—”

“Just. Fucking.  _Move,_ ” you pant.

It feels like sandpaper slowly dragging against your tender walls as he begins to thrust, and the muscles in your legs tense up, short nails biting into your palms as you try to absorb the pain.

“Fuck. Her.” The demon snaps, tightening his fingers around your wrists. “You ain’t makin’ love here.”

“Goddammit,” Dean whispers as he increases his pace. It doesn’t make sense to you, but the pain lessens the harder he thrusts, and you can almost feel  _pleasure_  from it. He’s fucking you so deep you can feel his pelvic bone slapping against your clit, sending dull tingles flickering through your core. Your hips are slightly canted, allowing him to brush over your g-spot on every plunge, further strengthening the pain-muffled arousal.

The blood oozing from your cunt mixes with your building slick, helping Dean to smoothly glide in and out of you.

“Startin’ to feel good?” the Dean behind you purrs.

“Ye-yeah,” you mindlessly gasp.

That was a mistake.

The demon releases your wrists, bringing his fingers to curl around your shoulders—

And then two thumbnails sink searing-hot into the raw scabs in your back. You feel the crusted flesh give way just before warm blood begins to soak into your t-shirt.

Your scream is piercing, and a thumb releases the wound on the right side of your back to slap a heavy palm over your mouth. Dean stills at your cry, quickly pulling out—

“Don’t you dare,” the demon warns. “Fuck her until you come.”

“Get your hands off of her,” Dean bites low; threatening.

Cold steel meets your throat—

“Say it again and it’s over.”

An unexpected tear slips out from underneath the eyelashes fanned at your cheekbone as Dean pushes back inside.

“Look at me, kid,” Dean murmurs.

You have to  _peel_  your lids open, and the dim light of the room is almost blinding after having them closed for so long. Your chest aches when the hunter’s blurry face comes into focus, his eyes.  _God_ , the pure  _heartache_  in his emerald eyes.

“Just keep your eyes on me, it’s just me here.”

“And me,” the demon sniggers, wiggling the blade against your throat.

“Shit” Dean breathes, “I’ll—I’ll finish this, just…just put the knife away.”

“Come inside her and I  _will._ ”

You squeeze your eyes shut again, you can’t look at him, not like this.

Dean resumes his rapid rhythm as blazing pain returns at your oozing-wet back. Every muscle in your body clenches and tightens at the agony, and you wish to  _God_  you could just pass out.

You can hear Dean’s breath quicken as he nears his end, can feel him swelling inside you.

Pain ceases at the right side of your back once again as a hand snakes around your hip, two calloused fingers dipping down to strum at your clit. The forced stimulation coupled with Dean’s driving cock abruptly sends you over the edge, your raw inner walls painfully clamping down on the hunter as your orgasm quickly washes over you.

And then with a strangled cry, Dean releases inside you, and you can feel each pulse as he comes deep.

“There,” the demon grunts as you both gasp and pant into the stagnant motel air, “You got to come after all…do I get a ‘thank you’?”

“Go to hell,” you grit through ground teeth.

“Funny,” he quips. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

Dean hisses as he pulls his softening length from you, leaning down to press soft lips to yours. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Your eyes flutter open as he pulls away, “S’okay,” you whisper. “It’s not your fault, Dean. Any of it.”

The hunter has just tucked himself away when he freezes, panicked eyes darting side-to-side. “No!” he growls, “No!” And then he’s lurching forward, falling on his hands either side of your waist. He dips his head until all you can see is his short, mussed locks.

Your blood turns cold when as his head slowly rises, twisted grin etched into his face.

“That was  _fun._ ”


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning for graphic rape/non-con

Everything hurts. Everything. And you’re sticky with blood and sweat and come still sandwiched between two creatures wearing Dean Winchester’s face.

Michael brings a hand up, presses the heel of his palm into your forehead. Panic flickers up your spine––this is it, you’re dead—but then a blanket of warmth falls over you and you can feel the healing, can feel the pounding pain between your legs dissipate, feel the opened wounds on your back close. He drops his hand to your belly, pushes down until you can see the skin compress a little under the weight of it.

The angel’s eyes widen and his smile softens a little—

“Do you feel that?” he asks you, stolen green eyes flicking down to yours.

“It...it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“No, not that...the life. Can you feel the _life_?”

You let your gaze fall down to the splayed hand on your stomach, then back up to his too-wide eyes.

“No,” you gasp. “No, it can’t be—you’re lying!” You hear the demon’s deep chuckle behind you and it makes you a little dizzy. “I’m on the pill, it isn’t possible!”

“Yeah?” Dean grunts, the vibration of his voice pulsing into your back. “You’ve been a little distracted lately...when’s the the last time you took it?”

“I…” Shit. You’d been so preoccupied with capturing Michael—and you hadn’t been sexually active since before…

Oh god. It’s been weeks–– you’ve even had a period since, but you thought nothing of it because...well because what did it matter anyway?

And this isn’t even the first time the archangel has come inside you since...since all this started.

 _Fuck_. You knew that was the plan, knew it ever since they’d discussed it over your bleeding frame slumped over the bunker library table. But you’d been so wrapped up in concocting an escape that you hadn’t really thought...

Your head spins. This can’t be happening.

Dean smoothes a hand up and and over your stomach just as Michael pulls his away.

“Looks like you got a little nephilim growin’ in ya.”

Everything tenses up at the demon’s too-real words. It isn’t just that you could be carrying, or even that a supernatural being _impregnated_ you—

This is a death sentence. You’ll never survive the birth. You can still see Kelly Kline; shiny with sweat, twisting and clenching in pain on that rickety bed in that old, dusty farmhouse. You can still hear her screams—

“So,” Dean rumbles, guiding his hands up your torso to gently close around your breasts. “If you’re done with her...and she’s all healed up…” He gives you a rough squeeze. “Think I’ll take her for a spin.”

You freeze, breath catching before it can leave your throat. “No…” you whisper, and it’s weak, comes out more like a statement of defeat than a plea; you can’t stop him.

You can’t stop any of this.

Michael makes a disgusted face then knees his way off the bed. “Fine, but...take it easy, hmm? She’s carrying precious cargo now.”

And with that, he’s on his way to the bathroom, and the gentle click of the latch may as well be a slam.

*****

You should count yourself lucky, you think; he’s at least taking you from behind so you aren’t forced to look at his face, so you don’t have to see the charcoal black of his eyes while he violates you in the worst possible way.

Again.

You’ve got a pillow bunched up in your arms, anchoring yourself to the cheap cushion while the demon drives into you. Your legs are splayed out behind you, hips flush to the mattress with Dean stretched long over the length of you.

The sound of skin slapping skin bounces off the thin motel walls and you wonder if you have any neighbors, wonder if they can hear you. Doesn’t matter if they did, you realize. They’d surely roll their eyes, maybe turn up the volume on the television, or toss a pillow over their heads as they took it as an ordinary couple fucking—not a supernatural rape.

And you don’t bother screaming; you didn’t before, so why start now? Not that it would do any good, it’d only cause the harm—or more likely–– the _death_ of an innocent civilian.

So you take it. You grit your teeth and clutch your pillow as the demon takes what he wants, hot breath pulling the sweat from the curve of your neck where he’s swept your hair aside. His balled fists crater into the mattress on either side of your chest as he holds his powerful body over you, warm drops of sweat splattering onto your back as he wildly chases his own pleasure.

It hurts, the way he’s brutally fucking into you; pistoning in and out deep enough that you can feel his heavy balls slap into your clit.

He’s grunting directly into your ear now, and you know it’s purposeful. He wants to dominate you, to let you hear how he _enjoys_ savagely using your body. Christ, it doesn’t sound _remotely_ human, his voice; it’s gritty-deep and hellishly low.

You can actually feel the bed tremble with his struggle to hold himself up as he curls into you, hips pressed into your ass he pulses hot and deep.

Michael emerges wet-headed from the bathroom as Dean gives you two final humps before gingerly slicking out. He gives you a playful swat to the ass as he rolls off the bed, leaving you limp and damp as the excess of his climax oozes out of you to pool onto the blankets beneath you.

The angel is impeccably dressed once again; tailored suit wrinkleless as he primps in front of the grimy wall mirror.

You push yourself to your back, close your legs to try to halt the lazy flow of warm wet between them.

“Goin’ somewhere?” Dean grumbles as he tugs his jeans up and over his hips.

Michael’s still hunched in front of the mirror, flits his eyes to glare at the demon’s reflection.

“I am,” he says simply.

“Am I gonna find out where you’ve been by turnin’ on the news?”

Michael smiles that sickeningly wrong smile, brings his borrowed eyes back to the task at hand. “I...have a few...errands to run.”

“Uh-huh,” Deans says flatly and crosses his burly arms over his bare chest. “Look. You listen to me,” Dean says, voice deepening with every uttered syllable. “I get you wanna take over the world––and that’s great, man. Good for you. But I ain’t your fuckin’ lapdog.”

Michael gives Dean one last look in the mirror and then straightens, turns slow to face him. “What is it, _Dean_?” he asks, taking menacingly slow steps toward him. “Hmm? What––you want in? Wanna be my right hand...demon?”

You quickly throw on your clothes while the creatures square off, the thought of running again briefly flickering through your mind.

“I wanna know what you want, what you _really_ want.” The demon stands a little straighter, rights his shoulders. “This has been fun,” he nods, and you don’t miss the slight tilt of his head towards you. “But what’s the grand plan? Why do ya need an entire army of human-angel hybrids?”

Michael cocks his head. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, lips pulling wide to expose pearly, smiling teeth.

“I want to make a new world.”


	8. Chapter 7

“Awesome,” Dean grumbles with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Another Lucifer.”

Michael’s glare is razor-sharp when it flicks to the demon. “No,” he says, voice gritty. “Lucifer’s agenda had  _nothing_  to do with Earth or civilization, and  _everything_  to do with rebellion against our father!” The angel’s teeth grit with every word until you can see the bolts of his jaw bulge under scruff-dusted skin.

Dean tilts toward you. “Think I hit a nerve,” he mutters low from behind unmoving lips, the corners quirked up in satisfied amusement.

You cross your arms over your chest and scoff, eyes rolling before dropping to the drab carpet.

“Might I remind you,” Michael says, voice stony. “That  you’re only still alive because I’m so... _appreciative_  of your support.”

“Support?” Dean echoes. “You’re an angel, I’m a demon...I don’t support anything you feather dusters do. I’m just here for the ride.” He chuckles at his pun, and you glare up at him as green eyes dance toward you.

“That so?” Michael muses, voice chillingly light. “You do realize I don’t need you...the girl isn’t a threat.”

You can feel yourself bristle at that.

Dean stands a little taller, juts his chest. “Think I’m afraid of you?” the demon challenges, taking a predatory step forward.

“Okay, stop!” you suddenly blurt, surprising everyone including yourself. The twin Deans snap their heads toward you in almost comical unison. “Just stop,” you breathe; pleading. “What do you want, Michael?” You’re so tired. “Just...spell it out. What’s so  _wrong_  with this planet?”

“Humanity.” Michael’s says the word with a slight shake of the head, like you’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world.

“Yeah…” Dean drones. “Remind me again how this doesn’t make you Lucifer 2.0?”

Michael’s shooting daggers. “Because this has nothing to do with my father.” He breathes out a clipped sigh. “He had so much  _love_  inside him that he created this beautiful world. For  _you_. I had no qualms with that...But look what you’ve done to it.” His brows are sharply angled over stormy jade eyes, rosy lips parted just enough to release anger-laden breaths. “Your greed...your bloodlust—you’re all killing each other by the thousands—” He sweeps a broad arch through the air with a wide-fingered hand for emphasis. “And you don’t even bat an eye!”

“That’s rich,” you say, “coming from  _Michael_ , the ‘Archistratege of God’.” You don’t even try to disguise the bite in your tone.

“You speak of war,” the angel corrects. “War is...meticulous, organized...it’s order. You creatures  _murder_. It’s chaos; barbaric. And it  _will_  stop.”

“ _We’re_  barbaric?” you seethe. “Barbaric is  _raping_  a woman in order to create an army.”

There’s a long pause before Michael speaks again. “Sometimes one must get his hands dirty in order to achieve his purpose.”

You’re fuming, chest heaving with barely-contained fury. “Maybe you should find a new ‘purpose’ if you have to literally  _grow_  your military,” you growl, fingernails sinking into your palms where they’re tucked tight under your biceps. You smile flat. “You’ll never get it, you know. Your army of Nephilim. One birth will kill me.”

“It will,” Michael nods. “But lucky for all of us...I have the power to bring you back. Which I will.” He takes a step toward you. “And you’ll bear child...after child...after child. Until I no longer have a use for you.”

You feel your blood chill, muscles tense at the dread. “Yeah?” You say a little more quietly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “And then what?”

Michael’s borrowed upper lip curls in a sneer and then he’s raising a hand next to his ear, long fingers frozen in a pre-snapping motion. You swallow hard.

The archangel’s face softens then, eyes widening. He tilts his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling.

“What?” Dean grunts.

“Castiel,” Michael hisses. “He’s close.”

You exchange glances with the demon just two sets of fingertips firmly press against your foreheads.

*****

Dean leans against the brick, head tipped back, the morning sunrise illuminating his face in a rich orange-golden glow. He’s still handsome, the monster that he is, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to look at him the same way again, when things go back to normal.  _If_  they go back to normal. You press a hand to your stomach.

There is no more normal.

Michael’s in the new motel’s office, paying for your stay with Dean’s stolen credit cards, the man or woman behind the counter no doubt oblivious to the thing wearing an innocent man.

You lean back against the brick, assume the demon’s pose, eyes cast down to your boots. “He’s gonna kill you, you know,” you murmur, exhaustion evident in your voice.

Dean doesn’t look you, calm eyes set on the sleepy highway ahead, and simply shrugs. “Maybe.”

You loll your head towards him. “You don’t care?”

He doesn’t answer for several seconds. “Not really,” he says finally. “I mean, it’d suck I guess.” He chuckles, flicks his eyes at you. “It’d be kinda like suicide, wouldn’t it?” His smile dies at your lack of amusement. “Besides,” he says, lifting his right arm. “I don’t think he can with this.”

Your eyes settle on the Mark of Cain. It seems like a lifetime since you’d last seen it. “I dunno,” you muse. “Maybe. But we removed it...I’m not really sure how that works in this situation.

Dean grunts from deep in his chest, flits his eyes back to yours. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my blade is, would ya?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“I think so. You––God, this is weird. Talking to past-you…” You sigh. “You gave it to Cas after you killed Cain.”

“I killed Cain?”

“Yeah.”

You both look forward then, Michael’s stiff gait rapidly approaching. He lifts a hand, two keycards wedged between his index and middle fingers. He gives you a hard look as he slips one to Dean.

“You don’t even need that,” you grumble, following him to door 108.

The room doesn’t differ much from the last. The nylon carpet’s a rusty red instead of brown, curtains a drab beige, and the blankets tucked over the two identical beds are an offensive orange and blue combination.

You plop down into the black chair at the cheap table nestled against the wall and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror––you look like shit; your hair is wild and dark circles shadow your tired eyes. You’re beyond exhausted––when’s the last time you slept? And though you still don’t want to believe it; you’re very probably pregnant. With a Nephilim.

You need to talk to Dean. If you could just get through to him...You lock eyes with your reflection, a spark of hope flashing across them as an idea forms.

“Hey, Dean?” you give yourself one last look in the mirror before swiping the ballpoint next to the pad of stationary and tucking it into the back pocket of your jeans.  You turn to find the demon sprawled across the nearest bed, eyes glued to the television, fingers curled around the black remote resting against his thigh.

“Huh?” His eyes don’t leave the glow of the screen.

“I’m starving. Can we get something to eat?”

He chews the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, saw a burger joint down the road,” he says. “Want anything, Mike?” Michael sits at the foot of the opposite bed, head cocked inquisitively as he drinks in whatever Dean’s got on the TV.

“No.”

Dean rolls off the bed, swipes the leather wallet from the nightstand, and makes his way toward the door. As soon as you hear the metallic click you ease yourself off the chair. “Gonna shower,” you mumble, slinking past Michael’s still-engrossed stare.

You go straight for the faucet, turn the water on full, and sit on the edge of the tub. It takes a bit more strength than you realized, but you finally snap the plastic pen in two after removing the ink tube. The cut’s fairly clean; angled, and you tap a testing finger against the sharpest point. Yeah, it’ll do.

God it hurts. A knife would’ve been much more preferable, but you get it done; a nice, deep cut across your left palm that’s bleeding freely. You dip your right index finger into the pool of warm crimson and begin the angel banishing sigil.

*****

Your scream is piercing, but brief; careful not to alert any outside attention.

You hear several heavy footfalls and then the door wrenches open––

And Michael’s stolen eyes fall on your bloodied hand hovering over the neatly drawn Enochian symbols.

“What––”

“Let me talk to him,” you hiss.

Michael smirks. “Banish me, then,” he challenges. “If I go, Dean goes with me.”

“If my hand connects,” you rasp, “then so does the pen.” You flick your eyes down to the clear plastic clutched in your tight fist, jagged edge pointed at your belly.

“And so does your child.”


	9. Chapter 8

Michael’s jaw steels as his eyes flicker from your face to the makeshift weapon in your hand. “Fine,” he concedes, and raises a posted finger. “You have five minutes...And don’t think I won’t be listening.”

You give the archangel a nod of understanding, and then he closes his eyes, dips his head. You swallow hard when his full lips start to tremble, brows bunching like he’s in pain. He grunts soft; just gritty little whimpers bubbling up from his chest, and then he’s lifting his head, green eyes darting around him like he has no clue where he is.

“Dean? Is that you, baby?” Your voice is a weak, breathy rasp.

Dean’s eyes catch on your hand still floating in front of the blood-streaked wall.

“Do it,” he croaks, and tries to force a smile.

“Michael says I’m pregnant,” you blurt, hot wet damming behind the brim of your eyes.

“I know,” he whispers, let’s his gaze slip to the grimy tile floor.

“Is he telling the truth?”

“I think so,” he murmurs. “It feels like the truth. He wouldn’t lie anyway. Not about that.”

You nod solemnly. “Maybe you’re the father...I mean it was you—Michael wasn’t it control when... when we…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the statement.

“No.” He shakes his head, wets his lips. “No, he’s...his grace—it’s inside me, like it’s infused...I can feel it burning. Even now.”

You nod slow, mouth twitching in a grimacing smile. “Can’t you reject him?” you ask, voice cracking. “I mean, he has to have your permission right? To stay?”

“No.” He clears his throat. “No, he just needed permission to enter...And I gave it to him.”

You jump when he suddenly turns to SLAM his fist into the wall, sheetrock crumbling over rows of orange tile. “I gave the son of a bitch permission!” His voice is an abrasive growl, deep enough to feel in your bones. “We had a deal,” he whispers. “I was so goddamn desperate...Sam was…I had to.” He breathes a dying sigh. “But look what it’s cost us...what it’s cost  _you_.”

You drop the broken pen, listen to it clatter against the tile, and gently lay a clean hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his suit jacket.

“Yes, it is,” he argues, long lashes dewing with the threat of tears. “But I’m gonna fix it...M’gonna save you.”

He straightens, anchors his eyes on yours with newfound determination. “Blast me.”

“Dean...no. You could get hurt—or worse…”

“No,” the hunter breathes. “You know how many angels I’ve banished just for them to come back in the same vessel? Hell, I’ve done it to Cas.” His lips curl up in a hopeful smile. “Besides,” he says, “Michael won’t let anything happen to me, to his sword.” He turns, gets his big hands on your upper arms and holds firm. “You blast me, and call Sam. Now. While Demon-me is still gone.”

“Dean, I––”

He jerks you to him, ducks down and kisses you. It’s hurried and sloppy; mostly landing on the left side of your mouth in his haste. “Do it,” he murmurs, soft lips brushing against yours. “And get your ass back home.”

*****

Cas drops his hand from your stomach, gives you a look that doesn’t require any accompanying speech, and nods. “She’s pregnant,” the angel confirms, twisting at the neck to look up at Sam, then back to you before stepping back to lean against the war room’s map table.

“With twins.”

“ _What?!_ ” you gasp, hand absently clutching at your belly.

“I’m sorry.” The angel’s head wobbles from side to side.

“Are you  _sure_? You breathe, head swimming with fresh news. “How  _can_  you be? They could’ve only been conceived—”

“Mere hours ago,” Cas finishes. “And there is no doubt. You’re carrying a Nephilim...and a Cambion.”

“A what?” you gape.

“Cambion,” Cas repeats. “Half-human, half-demon.”

You’re laughing now, delirious with shock. “This just...it isn’t possible,” you say, running a shaky hand through your hair.

“Okay,” Sam rasps, then swallows and nods. “Okay, we’ll figure this out.”

“What is there to figure out, Sam?!”

Sam makes a face reminiscent of a wounded puppy at your outburst and the sight of it sends a sharp pang zipping right through your chest.

“It’s just…” you sigh. “This is scary, okay?” You hook your eyes on his. “I don’t wanna die. I mean...I’ve got, what, five months?”

“No, hey––” Sam breathes, takes two broad steps toward you to dwarf you in his big arms, then tucks you to his chest. “You’re not gonna die, okay? We’re gonna fix this.”

You let yourself melt in his warm embrace; listen to his heartbeat thump into your ear, feel the soft flannel against your cheek.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to fix,” Cas says from somewhere behind the towering hunter. “Termination is out of the question. These children  _will_  find a way to be born. We saw this with Kelly.” The angel pauses, silence falling over the bunker for several frozen seconds until he speaks again. “We need Jack.”

Shit.  _Jack_. Maybe  _he’s_  the answer...

You pull back, suddenly aware of the Nephilim’s absence, and tip your head back to search Sam’s face. “Where is Jack anyway? He was supposed to be with Cas while we performed the spell…”

You push away from Sam, step around him to lock eyes with the angel. “Cas? Where’s Jack?” He doesn’t answer, avoids your gaze, deep blue eyes anchoring to the back of Sam’s head as he silently asks his friend for help.

“In the dungeon,” Sam mutters, eyes glued to his scuffed boots.

“What?! Why?!”

Your eyes drift back to Cas, who defensively folds his arms over his chest. “When we discovered you were missing,” he explains, “Jack...he went into a rage, blamed himself for all of it.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “Said he had to be the one to fix it. We couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you locked him up? Like a  _monster_?!”

Sam huffs, licks his lips. “We couldn’t risk him killing himself, or getting you or Dean killed…” The hunter hangs his head low, long hair curtaining his face. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“We need him now,” Cas repeats, deep voice heavy with iron determination.

Sam nods, cautious hazel eyes raising to meet yours.

“I know.”


	10. Chapter 9

“How is the kid?” you ask, eyes darting between both men as you wait for an answer.

“He’s still healing,” Sam nods. “Slowly. Another reason we couldn’t let him…” He sighs. “He doesn’t understand that he’s more human than angel right now.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling a little at the Nephilim’s naive innocence. “I’d like to seem him,” you say. “Talk to him—”

Your request is cut short when the bunker lights begin to flicker.

“The hell?” Sam mutters as the three of you reflectively tip your heads back at the strobing lights.

“Is that him?” You ask, voice wobbling. “Is Jack doing this?”

A chorused hissing sound pulls your eyes to the various protective sigils carved into the old floors, walls, and columns. The wardings glow a fiery gold before snuffing to black ash as they’re supernaturally disabled.

“No,” Cas growls. “It’s Michael. He’s here.”

Pitch black suddenly blankets the bunker for only a breath before the lights kick back on with an unnerving hum.

“Get her out of here!” Cas barks, “I’ll hold him off—”

“Are you nuts?!” Sam argues. “You’re powerless against Michael! And if Dean...if the demon is with him—”

“Then I’ll  _stall_  them. Get. Her. Out.” The angel’s eyes are blazing, shoulders squared in preparation for a confrontation. Sam gives a curt nod, and then takes your hand, grip bruising around your fingers as he hauls you toward the bedroom wing of the fortress.

You have to sprint to keep up with his easy jog, and you’re breathless by the time you get to your door. Sam wrenches it open, gets a hand at your back, and pushes you inside.

“You stay here, hide under the bed––whatever you need to do. Understand?”

“Sam, you can’t go back there! They’ll kill you without a second thought!”

The hunter’s hazel eyes dart from side to side as he contemplates this, and then widen––

“I’ll get Jack, maybe he has enough power to…”

“Michael is strong enough on his own,” you remind him. “And he’s  _supercharged_  now that he’s wearing Dean…” You shake your head. “There’s just no way.”

Sam takes an audible breath “Wait––I have an archangel blade!”

“Are you an archangel?” you bite, voice high. “ No, you’re not. You can’t wield it, Sam!”

“Well, maybe Jack––”

“Jack can’t help us!” You close your eyes, take a calming breath. “ He’s safe where he is.”

You scrub both hands over your face, chew your lip. “Let me go back to them...At least until we can figure something else out.”

“Kid,” Sam breathes. “I’m not just gonna let you walk back into that...that nightmare!”

“If that means saving all of our lives…” You let your eyes drop, shake your head somberly. “Michael won’t kill me...he needs me.” You bring a hand to your stomach. “At least for the next five months.”

Sam closes his eyes in defeat, works his jaw. “I don’t like this.”

“Me either, believe me...but we don’t have a choice here. And you know it.”

*****

It’s quiet as you make your way back to the war room, your echoing footsteps loud as you march down the silent halls. You exchange a nervous glance with the Winchester, the two of you immediately picking up speed at the shared sense that something is very wrong.

When you cross the entrance to the main room, your breath stills in your chest at the sight of an immobile Castiel, frozen in a choke hold, Michael’s borrowed arm looped at the angel’s throat, glittering angel blade pressed against the long stretch of flesh.

You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes zipping around the room, up the metal stairs and the landing.

The demon is suspiciously absent.

“Michael,” you croak. “Please...let him go. I’ll go back with you, I’m sorry I ran––”

“Funny,” he says, deep voice a threatening grumble. “I seem to recall having this exact conversation a few hours ago.”

“I know,” you murmur, uncaring if the archangel heard the two words or not. You clear your throat to make room for a little strength to your speech. “I’ll go back with you, and I’ll fully accept the consequences...Please. Just let him go.”

“No,” Cas grunts brokenly, throat bobbing against the sharp tip of the blade. “Kill me,” he says. “Take my life in exchange for her freedom.”

Michael laughs, a chillingly low rumble bubbling up from his chest. “What kind of a trade is that?” He twists his head so he’s somewhat looking at Cas in the eye. “I don’t much care if you die or not...at the moment. You have something that belongs to me, I’m simply taking it back.”

You feel yourself flare up at Michael’s choice of pronoun, but you keep your mouth shut.

“I have something better,” Sam suddenly blurts. All eyes in the room settle on him as he huffs a clipped breath. “Let us all go––including Dean...and I’ll give you Jack.”

“What?!” you squeak.

He throws you quick glance, a look that says  _‘Just hear me out’_ , then looks back at the archangel wearing his brother’s face.

“Jack is nothing but a shell,” Michael says. “Lucifer depleted his grace.”

“He’s fully healed,” Sam says; lies. “He’s just resting now.”

Michael smiles, thoughtfully-amused, but his eyes are cold.  “I’d take you for many things, Samuel Winchester, but I’d never take you for a liar.”

Sam breathes a defeated sigh, tosses his hands up. “Then what, Michael? Tell me. There has to be some way to reach a deal. What can we give you?”

An eternity goes by before the archangel speaks.

“ _Your_  life will do.” It’s hard to breathe, the way those four words freeze your insides.

Michael nods at something beyond your places on the floor––you turn but it’s too late.

 _Dean_.

How did you miss him? How did you not feel his presence behind you?

There’s a deafening bang that follows the demon’s steady squeeze of the trigger, and you can hear the wet thump of lead ripping through flesh and muscle.

You can’t even scream as you stand frozen; can only watch helplessly as Sam’s towering height crumples to the floor, a pool of thick crimson spreading slow beneath green and black flannel.


	11. Chapter 10

A choking silence falls over the spacious room for what feels like an eternity before you’re falling to your knees, your jeans soaking up still-warm blood. Your fingers curl into Sam’s flannel, shaking him as if he’ll come to if you just thrash him hard enough.

 _“Please!”_  you shriek, head snapping up toward the archangel as you plead from behind tear-blurred eyes. “Bring him back - I’ll go with you, I promise! I’ll do whatever you want, please…” Your voice fades into a grief-stricken whisper. “Please, just bring him back.”

Michael’s eyes are flat and empty as he smirks at you from behind his angelic hostage, whose throat bobs, chest heaves with unspoken grief and fury. A hand suddenly fists at the back of your shirt and  _yanks_  you to your feet…just before a heavy arm loops around your neck-

And then a shrill female voice emerges from above you, spouting unfamiliar Latin. At her final word, both creatures suddenly drop to the floor, unconscious. Cas stumbles a little, newly free, and your wide eyes dance around the room before flitting up to the bunker’s entrance.

Rowena stands tall for her small stature, chin lifted, and chest puffed proud as she smirks in victory. “It…it worked!” she breathes in her rich Scottish tongue; astonished. She quickly recovers, turns to run down the metal stairs, black duffle bouncing at her side. “We don’t have much time, the spell only lasts around thirty seconds,” she says, heels echoing across the waxed tile as she heads toward you. “Maybe less with Michael…I’ve never used it on an archangel before.” She stoops down, gets her small hands under Michael’s arms, then snaps her head up at you. “Well? Are you going to help me, or just stand there like a useless damsel in distress?”

“Oh…” you murmur, dazed, as if coming out of a deep trance. “Right.”

You start to go, then stop. “What about Dean…and…and Sam?”

“I’ve got them,” Cas says, voice hoarse, trench coat flapping at his legs as he marches toward the slumped bodies.

It takes some serious effort, but you and the witch manage to seat Michael in a chair at the head of the map table. “Hold him,” Rowena instructs as she throws her bag on the lit table, then roots around in it until she pulls free a long clinking link of enchanted metal chains.

Just then, there’s a deep, gasping heave. You twirl around to see Sam rising just in front of the library entrance’s stairs, bloodied but very much alive. He looks down, sees the slowly-drying pool of his blood and frantically lifts his shirts, blindly pats around for the wound.

“You’re healed, Sam,” Cas says, and gives him a thump of comraderie on the back. You let out a relieved sob at the sight, feel the rush of joyful tears prick at your eyes-

“We’re running out of time!” Rowena shrieks, just as Michael starts to stir. Cas stoops down, presses two fingers to the lifeless demon’s forehead before gliding over to you.

“What are you doing?!” The redhead hisses.

“I’m buying us some more time,” Cas growls before doing the same to the awakening archangel. You whoosh out a relieved breath when he stills. “This should give us an hour.”

You stand back, a little stupefied while you watch a newly-resurrected hunter, a witch and an angel secure an  _archangel_  (wearing your boyfriend) and a demon (a  _carbon copy_  of your boyfriend) to identical metal chairs.

“Now!” Rowena chirps, claps her hands in excitement before moving back to her duffle. “Where is the boy?”

Sam and Cas spare a glance.

“What?” Sam asks. “Why?”

“He was injured, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t think-”

“I can heal him,” she says, sets the wooden bowl on the glass surface. “Well. Michael can…”

“Rowena…” Cas says, deep voice heavy with exasperation. “Michael’s not gonna just-”

“His grace, Castiel. His grace can heal Jack.”

“Wait,” Sam says, perplexed. “How are you gonna-”

“Would you just go get him?!” The witch shouts, eyes furious. “Bloody hell…” she murmurs as she busies herself with the spell’s ingredients.

Sam breathes out a clipped huff, exchanges an anxious glance with you and Cas before turning on his heels.

*****

Jack sits to Michael’s right, brows furrowed in combined pain and anger. “You locked me up,” he says, hurt. “I could’ve helped! I could have saved her!”

Sam sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s safe now-”

“I could have saved her sooner!”

“Jack, please,” Cas beseeches the Nephilim. You need to calm down.”

“I am calm,” he bites back between clenched teeth.

“Dammit, Jack,” Sam snaps. “We don’t have time for this! You need to stow the anger. Now.” His voice softens. “You don’t want to wind up hurting anyone.”

Jack blinks slow and backs off, gives him a dim nod. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

*****

You stand at the far end of the map table, nerves buzzing with the memory of the last time this was attempted. “Do you have the sigils right this time?” you ask, voice venomous.

Rowena slowly turns from her spot at the head of the table, eyes narrowed. “I do,” she purrs, voice low. “So  _sorry_  about last time. I  _was_  born human, you know.”

“Just get on with it,” you grumble, crossing your arms.

The witch turns back, rumbles out the incantation. You stiffen as the familiar lavender smoke cloaks the room, expecting the creatures to suddenly appear through the fog, awake and ready to pounce - but then the energy of the air shifts - and you’re shielding your eyes with your arms as a  _blinding_  column of white light rockets from the bowl of ingredients to the ceiling-

You cautiously lower your hands, blink rapidly to right your vision…

The demon is gone, metal chair empty in his absence. Michael’s still out, unmoving, head dipped down toward his chest.

“Dean?” Sam tries, takes a careful step toward his brother.

He slowly raises his head and smiles - not Dean. Sam steps back.

“This didn’t work out so well for you last time,” Michael says, voice deep, dark eyes finding yours. His grin widens. “You especially.”

You gulp, pray he can’t see you shaking from so far away. Your hand absently slides to your stomach.

“The spell isn’t over yet…” Rowena says, voice low; threatening. And then she raises her arms, shouts a foreign, ancient word, and then the archangel snaps his head back, screams in genuine agony as his grace pours from his eyes and mouth to dance and swirl around the Nephilim beside him. You can see the bright-golden glow of Jack’s eyes through the whirl of blinding grace-

And then it all stops. Jack and Michael both sit slumped and unconscious in the old chairs as heavy silence falls over the room.

None of you say a word for several seconds as your eyes remained glued to the lifeless men.

Jack wakes first, blinks under furrowed eyebrows. “Am I…am I healed?”

“I dunno,” Sam laughs. “How do you feel?”

Cas steps forward, presses two fingers against his forehead, and then steps back. “He’s healed, the angel affirms. “Fully.”

You and Sam share a relieved laugh of relief, but the moment quickly dies with the creaking of Michael’s chair.

“Dean?” Sam tries for the second time tonight. The atmosphere is stifling. “Hey…is that you, man?”

He coughs, sucks in a deep breath, and lifts his head. The quizzical blinking is the only confirmation you need.

“He’s gone…” Dean croaks, hopeful green eyes dancing around the four of you. And he smiles soft, smiles Dean’s smile.

“He’s gone.”


	12. Chapter 11

_The smoke stings your eyes and fills your lungs. You try to cough it out, but it only makes it harder to breathe. The smell of rotting meat is overwhelming as you blindly walk through the arid field. You throw your arm up over your mouth, the crook of your elbow serving as a makeshift shield against the fumes. You curse when you trip over something soft, but heavy - another body. If you could see through the haze of gray, you’d see the black scorch of burned-away eyes._

_The smog begins to clear then, and you squint your watery eyes as two silhouettes emerge amidst the destruction. You still, but they continue their approach, strides in sync and fluid. Though you try, you can’t seem to make out any facial features-_

_Except for charcoal black and piercing blue eyes._

You wake before you can scream; sucking in a sharp breath of air, damp and shaking all over.

“Shh…I gotcha.”

Dean’s got a heavy arm looped around your middle, tucking you into the cradle of his torso and thighs. He smooths your damp hair away from your eyes and cheeks, and presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head.

“Shit,” you breathe with a trembling whisper, warm relief flooding your veins.

“Another nightmare?” he asks, voice a little louder and rough from sleep.

“Yeah.”

“Same one?”

“Same one.”

“S’just a dream, honey. Go back to sleep.”

You nod into the dark, sure that he can’t see it. It’s been three weeks since you’ve had Dean back, and you’ve had this nightmare every night for the last four days. You can still see it playing in the staticky black of the bedroom - the smoky wasteland, the smell, the bodies…

The eyes.

You’d never been one to believe in premonitions, but this? Dean had tried to get you to talk about it, but you were still having trouble  _looking_  at the man, much less delving into deep discussions of clairvoyance and recurring dreams.

You can tell by the steady pulse of his breath against the back of your neck that he’s fallen back to sleep, and you can feel the pull of it yourself, so you close your eyes and pray that you’ll sink into a dreamless slumber until morning.

*****

Your prayers had been answered it seems, because the next time you wake, it’s morning. You tap off the alarm on your phone and flick on the lamp before stiffly pulling yourself up to swing your legs over the side of the bed. You give your eyes a hard rub before raking a hand through your mussed hair, and sliding to the cold floor.

Robe tied snug around your waist, you’re still blinking away sleep as you shuffle down the long hallway. Your empty stomach gurgles, and you press a hand against it. It didn’t take long for your appetite increase, not even a whole month pregnant.

Your hunger makes itself known again at the smell of eggs and bacon. You mutter a grumbled morning greeting as you step into the kitchen. Sam sits at the table, hand curled around his mug of coffee. He tucks a piece of shower-damp hair behind his ear before offering you a courteous smile. That same annoyingly sympathetic smile he’s been giving you for the past twenty days.

Dean’s still at the stove, back facing you, and the forward curve of his shoulders tells you that he’s just as tired as you are.

You side into the stool opposite Sam after filling your own coffee mug, setting your elbows on the table as you sip at the steaming brew.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, awkward smile carved into his face.

You throw a glance at the back of Dean’s head before looking back at Sam. “Yeah. I mean - I guess so.” You finish the lie with a careless shrug. You’re not sure if Dean heard you - if he does, he keeps his quiet.

He’s heading toward the table now, filled plates in hand. He sets yours down first, and gives you a secret rub behind your shoulder before taking his seat next to you. You toss a questioning look at Sam who just smiles again.

“Already ate.”

“Already went on his ass-crack-of-dawn run too,” Dean chimes before shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Wow,” you grin, picking up a strip of greasy bacon. “Not bad for a guy just back from the dead.”

Sam’s face twists into an unamused  _ha-ha._ “Thanks,” he quips. “I showered too.”

You laugh then, light, but genuine.

“Okay, well,” he starts before tossing his head back to drain the last of his coffee. “I’m gonna go check on Jack and Cas.”

“Yeah…Where are they?” you ask after a swallow.

“Archives. Researching-”

“Sam…” Your eyes roll and your jaw clenches.

“Look, I know-”

“I got this,” Dean interjects with a wave of his hand. You set your gaze on your half-eaten meal as Sam glides out of the room.

“There is  _nothing_  to research, Dean. I don’t know why you-”

“Why won’t you talk to me about the dreams?”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about,” you say, clipped. “They’re just dreams.”

“Okay,” Dean says, voice equally stern as his fork clangs against his plate. “Then why won’t you fucking look at me?”

The air turns thick at your silence. You drop your own fork.

“Don’t,” you warn, voice a harsh whisper.

“You think this is easy for me?” he rumbles, eyes boring into the side of your head. “It isn’t. At all. But at least I’m  _trying._ ”

Scorching rage bursts inside you then, and you twist on your seat to face him, your gaze meeting his for the first time in weeks.

“You think I’m not trying, Dean?! Do you know how much it takes for me to even be in the same  _room_  as you? Much less share a goddamned bed?”

Your throat swells with emotion, but you’ll be damned if you let the tears fall.

“I can’t look at your face because all I see is  _them_. I can’t look at you because I’m terrified your fucking eyes are going to change.” You take a breath and swallow. “You have  _no_  idea what I’ve been through.”

Dean’s eyes blow wide, brows dropping in anger. “Really? Because I have absolutely  _no_  idea! Please - fill me in!” His jaw sets. “You ever been possessed? Do you know what  _that’s_  like? To be trapped, drowning in your own fucking body?” He closes his eyes then, rubs at them with his thumb and index finger for a moment before he lets his hand drop back to the table. “Michael used me to team up with that…that  _thing_. He  _used_  me to hurt you. I was there. For all of it.”

A long beat passes; the rooms silent except for the low hum of the fridge.

“Dean…” you sigh, guilt washing over you as you cast your eyes to your lap to finger the soft belt of your robe. “I’m not…I didn’t mean…” You drag a hand over your face and try again. “I know it was a horror show for you too - I just…I’m really struggling here, okay? And I can’t…I dunno. I can’t just pretend like everything is normal.”

“I’m not asking you to.“ Dean sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “I need you to communicate with me, okay?”

You nod your silent agreement, pulling at a loose thread.

“And I need you…” he curls his fingers around your wrist and squeezes. “I need you to look at me. Please.”

Slowly, you let your eyes float to his, let yourself settle into the pools of calming jade. You tense on instinct when he blinks, but the green is unchanging.

“Things are never gonna be normal,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “They’re just not.” Warm fingertips brush against your skin as he brushes a stray chunk of hair from your eyes and smooths it behind your ear. “But we’re gonna be okay.”

*****

Three hours later, you’re sitting cross-legged on Dean’s bed, glossy 3 x 5’s spread out over the beige blanket. You pick up the photo directly in front of you and smile. It was your first official date with the hunter -  back in 2014. He’d taken you to The Black Thorn of all places, just a local dive bar. It may not have been the classiest date, or the most romantic - but it was just so very Dean. A true hunter’s date. He was freshly cured from his brief stint as a demon, and he’d vowed to start anew. You were that first step, he’d said. The two of you are all smiles as you beam at the camera. You’re tucked into his side, glowing and giddy from a mixture of alcohol and  _him_. Your grin’s a little too toothy, but it’s okay because so is his; eyes crinkling at the corners from the pull of it. You were both just so…happy.

“Whatcha doin’?”

You startle at Dean’s voice, unaware of how long he’d been tilted against the doorframe.

“Just…looking at these,” you say, flicking a hand toward the scattered photos. The bed dips as Dean takes a seat next to you. The corner of his mouth tugs up into a soft smile as his eyes scan the pictures.

“Hell, I haven’t seen most of these in years,” he says, leaning forward to pick up a picture you’d taken of him driving. “When was this?”

“Um…I think it was that ghoul hunt in Wyoming…Yeah. Sam stayed back. Bronchitis, remember?”

“Right,” he laughs. “Yeah.”

You toss the picture you’d been holding back to the bed and press your hands to your belly.

“I don’t wanna die.”

The sudden words are shocking even to you as they spill over your lips - but they’re true.

“You’re not gonna d-”

“The hell I’m not, Dean!” Your head snaps toward him, eyes heavy with fear and frustration. “Look what happened to Kelly when Jack-”

“We’re not gonna let that happen.” Dean’s voice is tight and his eyes are hard, but you can see his own fear swirling in the green. “We’re not.”

“Okay,” you concede, pretending to believe the lie. “But if…” You swallow. “If I don’t…Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Please.”

Dean gives you a tight-lipped smile and nods. You pretend to believe the lie.


End file.
